“What! do you dare to mock me?” cried Andrew.
“No; only it seemed so comic. You know, I’ve only had one friend since I’ve been here. How could I ask you?”
For a few moments Andrew stood gazing at him, as if hardly knowing how to parry this verbal thrust, and then the look which had accompanied it did its work.
“I say,” he said, in an altered tone, “this is very absurd.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” said Frank. “I never thought we two were going to have such a row.”
“But you called me a fool.”
“Didn’t! But you did call me a coward. Ha—ha! and yourself too. But, I say, Drew, you don’t think I’m a coward, do you?”
Andrew made no reply.
“Because I don’t think I am,” continued Frank. “I always hated to have to fight down yonder. And as soon as we began I always felt afraid of hurting the boy I fought with; but directly he hit out and hurt me I forgot everything, and I used to go on hammering away till I dropped, and had to give in because he was too much for me, and I hadn’t strength to go on hammering any more. But somehow,” he added thoughtfully, and with simple sincerity in his tones, “I never even then felt as if I was beaten, though of course I was.”
“But you used to beat sometimes?” said Andrew quietly.